The Empty Throne
by sailorgreywolf
Summary: This is a series of oneshots exploring the affection between different countries and their monarchs. The crown creates an intimacy between the wearer and their country. How do countries remember the women and men who leave eternal legacies? These will vary in the level of affection and romance, but all will be at least T. The pairings will be both yaoi and hetero.
1. My Only My Own: Elizabeth I

The bells rang as they always did at Westminster abbey as England walked past coffin after coffin, their carved effigies staring up into the web of colored light made by the stained glass. England could hear the last notes of God Save the Queen dying in the distance, celebrating the reign of Victoria. Now that he had a new queen and a new regime, he should be taking the time to congratulate her.

But,he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he didn't walk these crypts again. He was seeking the coffin of the best sovereign he had ever had. He reached the coffin that he was seeking and looked down at the carving. The stone did not accurately reflect the beauty that the woman had once had in life. England put his hand on the cold stone, wishing that it would be flesh again. Beneath it, the queen who had brought him a golden age rested peacefully.

* * *

Lord Dudley, only made a lord so that he could be a suitable candidate to be presented to Mary Queen of Scots as bait, approached Elizabeth with the smile that she knew too well. She allowed him to approach, but let no emotion slip through. He did not speak immediately, although he was usually brazen enough to. She did not grace him with a smile or a response to the gesture. So, he said as he bowed, "My Grace, will you require my council tonight?"

It was only a veiled question. The entire court knew what he was actually asking. Her response was cold, intentionally clipped, "I will have no need of you tonight, Robin." His disappointment was obvious in his face, but Elizabeth could not be bothered by it. She reminded herself that he had no real claim on her, only their occasional flirtations. He would never be her husband, so he would have to wait for her.

She walked past him, letting the eyes of all the lords and ladies rest on her as they all attempted to calculate the politics of her rejection. She knew that somewhere behind her Sir William Cecil was smiling because he thought that this was the first step towards her finally taking a suitor of his choosing. None of them could guess at the real reason.

Their gazes did not perturb her because she knew the truth and was alone in holding a warm glow in her heart. A letter had arrived from her that morning, brought by a privateer from Jamaica and she longed to read it privately. When she reached the door to her chambers, she whispered the words, the lies, that they said about her in Catholic courts, "The commoner that so freely mounts the queen will now put a bridle on her."

What would they say when they heard this latest piece of gossip? Did she care? The truth was that, although she tried, she could not pretend that she was stone enough to ignore all gossip. Even if this was not true, even if her heart already had a home, it still hurt to hear of such lies. Lord Dudley was a childhood friend and warmed her sheets when she was lonely, but he was not going to rope her into a marriage. After all, bigamy was condemned by the church, both the Protestant and Catholic. The ring that showed her matrimony was already upon her finger and she would not remove it.

She opened the door to her chamber and closed it behind herself. As was customary, her ladies waited to serve her every need. However, what she needed now was solitude. She ordered them to prepare her for bed as they did every night. If they thought she was asleep, then she would be allowed to have solitude. She gave the orders, but was indifferent as they were carried out. First her gown was removed, and then the layers of fabric and hoop skirts were taken off. She breathed in, enjoying the feeling of having the full use of her lungs again, as her corset was removed. Her hair was let down by the skilled hands of several ladies. As soon as they were done, they left silently.

Once she was alone, Elizabeth turned to a small table where the letter had been placed. It awaited her, eager to be taken in her hand and read. The parchment was deceptively simple and worn by its travels to reach her. She noticed now that there was a small wooden box, gilded, beneath the simple parchment. But, the box was not her concern. Whatever it contained would be explained in the letter. It was the words that she treasured, the tidings of far away seas.

She took the letter and returned to her bed. In only her chemise, her hair now falling straight to her waist, she opened the letter and began to read. The words were warm, speaking glowingly of the Western seas, of the wild natives of the new world, of the profit that could be made from sugar. It even spoke flippantly of the Spanish galleons, glutted on gold, silver, and cochineal. But, this was impersonal. She found more comfort in the words meant for her, those he would not write to other ship captains.

She ran her finger over the words, "My dear Lizzie, the sea gives me life. But, when I have a quiet moment alone in my cabin, I think of you. At times, the pain of missing you is too much to bear." She stopped reading and pressed the letter to her breast. England's words were making her heart skip like a young girl. She could hear them in the same voice he had used years ago.

She put down the letter and got out of bed. She walked over to the looking glass on her table. Her own aging face stared back at her from the polished glass. The beauty of her younger years was quickly fading, worn away by both time and the stresses of being a monarch. The young queen of Scots weighed heavily on her mind, as did the ambitions of the Spanish king. But, she didn't usually allow herself the time to dwell on her own vanity. Now, looking into this mirror, it was hard not to see the lines in her skin and the scars of the illness that had almost cost her her life.

England was the same age he had been since they had met so long ago. His skin was unblemished save the scars from his past. Elizabeth had seen personally the way that her mad half-sister Mary's purges had left burns that slowly faded to scars. She hadn't asked about all the scars, but she could guess at their origin. The Anarchy, the wars with the Scots, the War of the Roses, and the Reaping of the North. Each had left an indelible mark on England. But, still he appeared to be young as he had ever been and Elizabeth was aging.

Every time England went on these long sea voyages, she was older when he returned. How long would it take before he turned her away like Mary's husband had when she became too old? Her father had been the same, always turning to a younger queen whose womb was more fertile. Elizabeth slammed her hands down on the table. She would not allow herself to think like that when she still had a sweet letter from England that she had not yet finished. While he still painstakingly wrote to her, she shouldn't worry about her fleeting looks. It seemed that Cecil still thought her desirable enough to marry, even if it was just for her position.

Slowly, she turned away from the mirror, and her own aging reflection. It was not right to dwell on such vanity. She was a queen, tied for life to the Kingdom of England, and such musings were reserved for those noble ladies who flitted about the French court looking for men to pamper them. She began to read the letter again, skipping over the portions that spoke of business. There would be time for that later, and for the night she wanted only his words of love. Since he had begun to expand his empire, England's letters had consisted of more details of trade and less of emotion.

She finally reached the part of the letter that explained the lavish box that had accompanied the letter. The words were strangely comforting, "I have had a broach made of Caribbean coral. The natives here value it the same way we value gem stones. The color should compliment your hair. I wish I could send you myself rather than this trinket, but for now you should consider this a piece of my own heart."

Elizabeth glanced over at the box and decided that she would open it later. She had jewels enough without another to add to her collection. She would rather have England home, warm in her bed again. How far they had come was beginning to set in. Her first memories of him came from her father's reign, when she was finally able to return to court, still labeled a bastard. He had been kind to her and danced with her. She remembered the night with a warm fondness, but it still seemed impossibly long ago. She had been so young and it was new to have a man take her hand and speak to her earnestly of poetry and philosophy. He had complimented her Latin as one genuinely impressed, and not as a false flattering courtier.

But, as she laid back down in bed, she reflected that she had never expected to be in this position, even with a budding feeling for her country. She had been a bastard with both a younger brother and an older sister, heirs who would take the throne before she would. She had been the unfortunate third person, the spare in the succession. And yet, now she was the queen and there was a coronation ring on her finger, taking the permanent place of a wedding band.

She would take no man as master, even the personification of her kingdom. Arthur knew well that she would not allow him to dominate her, but he was used to the demands of a monarch. It was not so strange to him to bend to the whims of his monarch instead of imposing as a husband would. When he was genial, he jested that no queen had been so demanding since Empress Matilda. The grace of Eleanor of Aquitaine and the will of Empress Matilda, that's what he would always say.

She didn't mind the teasing, England spoke to her as he would speak to a man save some of the more vulgar jokes. There were moments when he returned from sea that he spoke like a sailor, using base cockney. Elizabeth closed her eyes with a slight smile and let herself fall asleep, thinking not of Jamaica and the problems of the sugar trade, but of the night that England had come to her in the Tower, offering her a ring of plain gold.

* * *

The wind whistled through the walls of the Tower, bringing the cold into even the warmest clothing. Elizabeth pulled her wool cloak around herself, trying to ward off the errant breeze. There were rumors that men waisted away within these walls, chilled by the drafts and starved for human attention. Now she believed them, but there was another feeling that was far more insidious. Without any word from the outside world and denied even the ability to write letters, uncertainty set in.

It was easy to imagine that outside the walls of the tower Mary was plotting her death, paranoia driving her to execute the last of her family. Even the sergeant at arms would not tell Elizabeth what was happening outside her prison, and her own mind was inventing scenarios that would keep her here forever to rot within these walls. Periodically she would attempt to look out the windows only to remember that they were covered by planks to deny her even that. Kat Ashley was her only comfort and even she could do little to reassure Elizabeth.

The fact was that neither of them knew if death was coming to them in the form of a single sharp blow. Sometimes Elizabeth wondered if she would be granted the same mercy of the sword that her mother had been. Would she expire on the scaffold, labeled a witch like her mother before her? Could she hold her her head high and die with dignity like her mother?

Again, Elizabeth found herself pacing the cell with her cloak pulled tight around her, her fingers almost numb from how hard she was trying to hold onto her cloak. A sharp knock sounded on the door, and both women turned to look to it. The sergeant at arms would not knock like that, he would simply speak through the peephole in the door. It was definitely a stranger, which was odd in its own right. This called for a measure of caution, since there was no way to know if the stranger was friend or foe. At least they had the decency to knock.

Gathering her courage and straightening her spine, Elizabeth walked over to the door and said, her voice as commanding as she could muster, "Who is there? I demand to know."  
The voice that came back from across the thick door was beyond comforting, "It's me, Elizabeth. Can I please come in; I wish to speak to you."

She knew that the voice was that of England, but it still seemed out of place. Why would her country come to her now when his queen desired her death? Surely Mary would not have sent him. Elizabeth put her hand against the door, wondering if he was doing the same on the other side. It was almost as though she could feel his genuine heartbeat through the barrier. But she still had to ask, "What do you want to speak to me about."  
The response she got shook in a way that a man's should not, "I want to see that you are well. Please, Lizzie, I can't bear it."

The emotion plucked at her heart strings, moving her to respond, "Then, enter." Her fingers curled, clawing against the wood, hoping that the door would disappear. As though caving to her will, the door swung open. England stood in front of her, pale and thin. There were dark circles beneath his eyes and it looked as though he had lost weight. His clothing hung on him, wishing to be filled by the flesh that had once been there. There was a rosary prominent around his neck, but it looked wrong there. The green of his eyes was pure though, communicating a thousand words with a single glance.

Elizabeth caught her breath, a deep discomfort rising in her chest. She recognized the emotion as pity, and it struck her as deeply strange that she, a prisoner waiting for the uncertainty of execution, should pity a free man. But, the state he was in could be described as nothing but pitiful. Had Kat Ashley not been watching, Elizabeth would certainly have taken him in her arms and tried to comfort him. But he looked as though he might break if she tried to hug him.

It looked for a moment as though tears were threatening to well up in his eyes. But, as they seemed ready to tip over the brink, England composed himself and said, "You look thinner, Lizzie. But, I think, not unwell." It was carefully constructed. It was clear that he was painfully aware of the keen ear of the sergeant at arms, who would repeat everything that was said to Mary. She understood his hesitation and would not press him farther. The meaning behind his words was all too clear. He was happy to see her alive, and had been worried that she had perished in the tower.

She stepped aside and said, "You should come in. We should speak." As he followed her order, he looked around at the spartan walls and boarded windows. The last of the color drained from his face as he realized what condition she was living in.  
But, Elizabeth would not allow him to speak about it. As soon as the door closed, she spoke careful to cut him off before he could lament her situation, "How is my sister?"

She didn't actually have any doubts about Mary's wellbeing, but it was right to ask. England attempted a small smile, but his very muscles seemed to resent the action. He said, "She is well. She says that she is with child and has shut herself away to prepare for the birth."

The words still had the hollow ring of official news and Elizabeth responded to them in kind, "I am glad for my dear sister." But, they were not true. The news came as a shock; especially considering Mary's age and her husband's absence. It seemed so unlikely that Mary was really with child. But, if that was so then it was a great relief. If a boy was born to Mary, then it would be a mixed blessing. A secure line of succession would free Elizabeth from her precarious position and might also free her from the tower. Surely, then she would no longer be the unwilling symbol of rebellions against her sister. But, the child of a queen of England and the king of Spain would have a grand empire and the power to reassert the Catholic church where it had lost its sway. In her Protestant soul, Elizabeth couldn't find this news joyful. Her own freedom would not be worth that cost.

She clenched her hands, but betrayed no other sign of her rage. England seemed to share her uneasiness, but she could only tell by the way he stumbled over his words. He was eloquent enough to not struggle for words. But, he choked on his own lies, "Yes, we are all glad for her." He paused for only a moment before the truth broke through the barricade of fear. He turned straight towards her and said, his eyes manic, "She isn't with child. She is bitter, lonely, and mad. I cannot think that she will live much longer."

He stopped as it all came spilling out and laid conspicuously on the floor of the cell between them. England looked at Elizabeth, waiting for the condemnation of his words. It was treason to imagine the death of the monarch and they both knew it. If the wrong ears heard those words, it could easily lead the speaker to the scaffold. Even if England was a country, he could be punished for the words he spoke. To speak them in Elizabeth's presence showed a profound degree of trust. He knew that she would not betray him.

But, the words had another meaning she could not ignore. If Mary did die, then there was only one person left in the succession. The Spanish king couldn't take the throne without a son, so the throne would pass to Elizabeth. That very thought was the one that had confined her to this tower. She not dare even voice it, lest she condemned herself with it. So, she gave a stiff nod, acknowledging only that she understood.

He did not have the same caution. England's eyes were frantic as he said, the words running into each other in their haste to be known, "Lizzie, this means that you will be queen. I am glad of it. I do not think I can possibly weather another monarch who will make me grovel to Antonio." He was shaking slightly, his hands looked were stiff with a tension that matched her own.

She longed to comfort him, but there was too much at stake to act like any other woman. She kept her distance from him, even though it pained her. Summoning the memory of the screams of a desperate woman, she reminded herself what became of women who put their hearts before matters of state. If she was to be Queen, then she could not let her heart decide her actions. The words she spoke were devoid of emotion, "What you mean to say is that I might be queen. A right to the throne means very little within these walls. Tell me, Arthur, did their legitimate right save the Plantagenet princes?"

He recoiled, not at her words but at the tone of them. He looked away from her for the first time since he had walked into the cell. The gesture tore at Elizabeth; she had not noticed the way his gaze had warmed her until he looked away. She felt the biting wind that was ever present in the tower again. Again, her frigid hands tightened on her cloak. England spoke again, this time he voice was measured, "You are right, of course. But as it stands, you will inherit the throne when you're sister dies. I wanted to make sure you were well, so that I did not have to accept a Spanish monarch."

He turned as though he was about to leave the cell. Elizabeth felt the heart she had convinced herself was stone jump in her chest. His reason for coming to her was little more than concern for the continuation of the monarchy. The emotions in his voice had made it seem like he had come here for far more. She let her facade slip and spoke, "Is that really all you came here for?"

A very small edge of emotion slipped into her voice. He turned back towards her and said, his eyes meeting hers again. A trick of the uneven light made the circles under his eyes looked darker than before. The strain of the purges and the war had left deep impressions on his face. And yet, his eyes still shone with vivacity of her father's reign. It was that passion for life that Elizabeth had found herself longing to see. After being denied human contact for so long, he was a shining light, even in his desperate condition.

He spoke again, his voice no longer ringing of false officially, "No. I have missed you dearly. Your sister has turned the court into a monastery. I miss our conversations. I miss your light. I could not stand the idea that some awful fate had befallen you." The tears that had been held at bay before welled up in his eyes again. This time Elizabeth took a couple steps forward and tentatively raised her hand to place it on his shoulder. Her heart longed to take him in her arms and return the tenderness he showed for her.

His words made no attempt to hide the fact that he loved her. The word itself was not present, but it did not need to be. But, what was love? Elizabeth knew that the concept was not equal to security. Her father had loved her mother, at least for a time, and that had not saved her. Presumably, he had loved Katherine Howard as well, and sentenced her to the same fate. Even his love for Jane Seymour had not stayed her death. So, although the idea had the beauty of a poet's sentiment, it could not help her in the moment. Had they both been young peasants, then she would show no restraint.

He could not possibly know how throughly she shared his pretty sentiment. He had shown her profound kindness when no one else had. She had never been the unwanted girl or the bastard in his eyes. Her warmest memories were of him and the the honest compassion he had had for a motherless child, scorned by her father.

As she extended her hand, he took it in his own and bent to kiss it. His lips were warm against her frigid flesh. The soft touch of his lips caused a rare flush to mount her cheeks. She knew, by virtue of her pallor and the shade of her hair, that the red would soon spread from her cheeks to her hairline. England looked back up at her, his green eyes shining with the depth of emeralds, and he pulled a ring from his pocket. It was only plain gold, most certainly not one of the gaudy ornaments of royalty. There was a sincerity in the simplicity that spoke of intention rather than ostentation. His voice was strained again as he said, "Please be my queen, Elizabeth. I truly believe you can bring us all better days. For my own part, I can imagine no else at my side."

He fell to his knees and held out the ring to her. It shone in the palm of his hand, tempting her to take it. But, she would not take it yet. Instead, she said, "Arthur, you know I swore to never marry." He remained on his knees, his eyes still fixed upon her. She could see the way her words pained him, but there was truth to them. She would not allow her will to be bent by a man, whoever he may be.  
England spoke, trying to reassure her, "I am not a mortal man and taking this ring does not diminish your station. I am offering you the power to be the mistress of England and never be subject to the whims of men again."

Elizabeth put her hand over the ring, still not daring to take it. It was hard to say what stilled her hand, when the crown was hers by right. She spoke again, "And what of your whims, Arthur?"  
He shook his head fervently, "I do not dictate what my monarchs do. When your father told me to denounce the Roman church, I did. I cannot stop your sister from doing as she pleases."

Slowly, Elizabeth closed her hand on the ring. It was a moment of consent. Now that she knew he respected her autonomy, she could take this ring from a man who loved her deeply. A bright smile spread across his face as he felt the metal lifted away from his skin. Elizabeth deliberately took the ring and held it before placing it with deliberate slowness on her finger. She wanted to England to see her acceptance of his proposal. There was no feeling of constriction associated with the metal band.

England got back on his feet and again took both of her hands in his own. The smile that was plastered across his face lit a spark in his queen's chest, warming her even against the cold that clung to the very stones of the Tower. It was clear that a weight had been lifted from the Kingdom of England. His face was still thin and wan, but the affection he held for Elizabeth lit his face. He kissed her hands once more, not daring any other displays of affection while they were being watched by her lady in waiting. Before he left, England spoke again, "Thank you, Lizzie. Next time I see you, it will be under far better circumstances. I look forward to that day."

* * *

The council chamber was silent as the queen entered the room. The tiresome clamor of marriage and foreign prospects was silent as she walked into the chamber. Her gaze fell upon each of them in turn, communicating her displeasure with the constant question. Each of them seemed to lose more sleep than she did over the question of when she would be married. They each favored a different candidate and would bend her ears with his virtues. None of them understood what it would mean to take a husband. They were men who could not possibly understand the restrictions of matrimony.

Only Cecil did not quail under her gaze. But, all of them kept their silence. They would not dare bring up that subject, or that of the Scottish queen until she allowed it. She let the silence ferment for a couple minutes as she prepared to speak. Her words would be carefully attended, she was certain. They were her councilors, not her lords. Her policy, whether they found it good or not, was their policy. And on this her resolve was steady.

The queen put her hand to her breast, where a new broach of Caribbean coral was sewn into her gown. It was only a gift, but it meant far more. The words that had ended the letter occurred to her again, "I look forward to your next letter. When I hear of your triumphs, I am certain that your mother gave the king the son she promised."

They had given her the courage to say what she now intended to say. He may be far from her now, across the sea harrying the Spanish fleet, but his heart remained here. He was the only man she would ever truly love, even if she enjoyed the flirtations of Lord Dudley. Only he could truly understand the distance she needed. Though it was trying for him to be so far away, the distance made them both fonder. He would support her in the words she now spoke.

She took a deep breath to steel herself before saying, "My lords, you tell me that I must marry for the good of my kingdom. You would sell a spot in my bed in exchange for armies and alliances. But I will say this now: I am already bound unto a husband which is the Kingdom of England."


	2. Land O' The Leal: Mary Queen of Scots

Scotland rarely walked the halls of Westminster Abbey. He knew that this was the place of his brother's remembrance. His royalty was buried elsewhere, many would wish to never rest in English soil. But, there were some of his stock that lay within these walls. The entire Stuart family was Scottish born, and belonged to him as much as they did to Arthur. But, he was not here to visit all of them; they had not favored him anyway. But, there was a problematic part of his own heart here as well.

She should have been buried on Scottish soil, not in the country that executed her. But, it had been her son's choice to bury her across a small alcove from her rival. After all of these years, he was still uncertain about how he felt when he came to this place and looked at this coffin. The likeness of the woman that decorated the top of the coffin was beautiful, just as she had been in life. The sculpture did not show the lines or strains of her years in captivity. She looked as fair and and young as she had been when he had last seen her at Loch Leven. He did not dare touch the stone, not this one, not the queen who lost his favor and ultimately, lost her life.

* * *

The wind was very cold, colder than she ever remembered it being before in the room at Fotheringhay castle. Elizabeth's men had granted her very little comfort in the past few months since Mary had been discovered and charged. She tried not to think of it. William Cecil had taken such perverse joy in showing her her own letter, endorsing the assassination of Elizabeth. He had looked like a cat that had finally pinned down the bird it planned to devour. He had been so glad to present her with her own words, so damning.

Now, she sat alone in a room barely lit by spare candles, no longer minding the damp and cold that seemed endemic to the castle. They said this castle was haunted by the ghosts of those that had died here. It was not difficult to believe. At night, she would summon memories of beautiful sunny France, so warm and so far away. Her beautiful, graceful childhood was a distant memory, but it was enough to keep her from freezing to death in the dreary wet of this abysmal country.

It would not matter soon anyway. The next morning she would face the executioner's axe. Unbelievably, Elizabeth had finally signed her death warrant. She had hoped that the memory of Elizabeth's own mother would still her hand. But, her hatred ran too deeply. The thought brought tears to her eyes, but she fought them back. No, she was not afraid of it. She would pray tonight and draw strength from faith. She would go to the Lord with a clear mind and a clean heart. She told herself she would go to the block with the strength of a saint in the color of a martyr.

Before she died, she had matters to set straight. She had a piece of parchment in front of her and a quill in her hand, but the words were a struggle. She would not write to her son; James had rejected her long ago. This letter was meant for her country, the one she had ruled not the one she had plotted for. For all her efforts, she had never so much as met England. It was Scotland that she owed an explanation to. She had not written to him during her entire confinement out of the fear that he would send back sharp condemnations. What could she say to him that would change anything that had come between them? But now, with the time of her mortality finite and defined, she had nothing left to stop herself. If he thought the worse of her tomorrow, then he would be cursing a ghost.

She pressed the tip of the quill to the parchment, drawing out the name she had not spoken or written for the entirety of her imprisonment. It felt strange to write it out again, "My dear Alistor," Her hands faltered as she thought of what to write. Her mind, so often distracted without stimulation in this purgatory, drifted back to the first time they had met, when she had still been young and foolish.

It had not been her choice to return to Scotland, though it was the land of her birth. France had been bright and bonny; she knew now that they had been the best years of her life. Francois had been just as young as she and sickly. But, all the same she had loved him. Beyond that, she had had every lavish desire she could want. The memories came back to her with the scent of French lavender and the taste of wine.

Leaving Paris for the last time had been difficult, leaving the life where she had been a glamorous queen, admired and respected. Aside from her mother's letters and blurry memories of her childhood, Mary knew little of Scotland. The only country she had met was France and he was tall, lithe, and golden as the sun. From what she had remembered from her childhood, her idea of Scotland was of an impossibly tall man with thick red hair and terrifying green eyes.

When she had arrived on the Scottish shore, it had been shocking to not see a lavish welcome party, with glorious horses draped in flowers and fine clothe. That was how royalty was received in France, with no expense or extravagance spared. But, her new kingdom was dreary and grey, with only a party of surly, bearded nobles to meet her. More than one of them, she remembered, had looked at her like she was an unwelcome guest, not the anointed monarch.

A single man had emerged from the crowd leading a white horse behind his own. He was tall, unkempt, and as red as any of them, but lacking the beard. His were the green eyes that she remembered from her childhood. When he offered the horse, good stock though it was, it was difficult not to be offended that there were no retainers, no glorious retinue. She mounted with a muttered, "Merci." but spent the rest of the journey in sulky silence. Scotland had occasionally given her warm smiles that she would tacitly ignore, even if they did improve the otherwise unbearable was, she had conceded to herself, not as terrifying as he had been when she was younger and maybe even charming in a rueful, brash sort of way.

As she rode and rain began to fall, a feeling of agonizing homesickness hit her. Mary did not want to be here in this unpleasant land with these stony, hairy men. She wanted to be home. The thought was frightening; Scotland was not home. Her brother belonged here, and she did not. Mary turned her head away from Scotland and stifled her tears for France.

She paused in her memories to notice that her quill had left a blot on the parchment. Mary decided not to try to get a new piece. No one had the sympathy to provide a dead woman with a new piece of parchment and she doubted Scotland would mind. He was not so careful that a single dot would offend him. She started the word that her pen had paused in the middle of again. She greeted him in the terms of a friend, though it was hard to say that they had ever been that.

But, then her words failed her. It had not been her intention to apologize. There were very few decisions that he had advised her against that she regretted. She could only conjure one to mind. It had been the decision of a naive girl with her ambitions south. that the women soon regretted and remedied rashly. He had given her wise, if not heated council against it, words she should have headed. So, it was to this matter that she turned her letter. If it was regret that he wanted, then she could provide it, if this if nothing else. She remembered their conversation and thought about it ruefully.

* * *

They rode out into the country on one of the rare sunny days, Mary astride the horse Scotland had given her, and her new suitor Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley by her side on a British mare. He easily kept pace with her as a man of the nobility should. She did not ride as fast as she was capable of either. An easier trot allowed her to stare at the man on the horse. Dressed so gallantly he looked every inch the grandchild of Henry the Seventh. He was tall and well-built, without the rough masculinity that Scots seemed to pride themselves on. He was unendingly appealing, not just in appearance but in manner. He was kind and would speak to her of such lively subjects. Aside of Riccio, her dearest advisor, there had been no one for her to discuss poetry and song with. Darnley had discerning ear and knew the difference between a waltz and a volta.

Since Elizabeth had sent him with a gift of horses, bearing the letter than barred Mary from marrying a European prince, Mary could not bear to be parted from. She saw no reason to be either. It was her intention to marry soon to buffer herself from the ambition of the Protestant Scottish lords and this man was her perfect match. He had a claim to the English throne and marriage to him would give Mary further reason to oust the bastard Elizabeth from her throne. Besides that, he was an Englishman, as Elizabeth had demanded her groom be, handsome, and Catholic. It was rare that a royal woman be able to have discretion in her own marriage. Mary thought herself fortunate and clever. In searching for a suitor, she had found a man who was not greatly her senior, who was handsome and shared her faith. It could not be more perfect.

She had found it hard to understand the dour look her country had worn since Darnley had arrived, which seemed to deepen with every day the man remained. She had considered speaking to him about it, but his sentiment seemed shared by her half brother and most of the court. They would see that there was no changing her mind. She would marry Darnley whether they liked it or not.

They turned their horses and headed back toward the capital, and Darnley turned to her and said, "Your majesty rides very well." She felt herself blush to the roots of her dark hair. Many men had said the same, including her country when she had ridden out with him, but coming from this man's mouth it sounded so much more sincere. She suddenly felt like she could ride forever, even with the ever present grey clouds building on the horizon. But, as he smiled at her again, he spurred his horse and it galloped away. Mary was forced to do the same, and the ride became a gay race over the hills.

Mary soon overtook him and pulled her horse in front of his with a delighted giggle. Lord Darnley said, "Well, it seems you have bested me. Now I am your slave." He extended his arms and bowed in a gesture of mocking surrender that looked all the more ludicrous from his position on the horse. Mary let out another fit of laughter. He was so witty, it was impossible not to find him amusing.  
She replied, still laughing, "Then I command you to never leave me, Henry!"  
He swept another comical bow before saying, "Oui, your majesty."

His poor French accent made her laugh until her stomach hurt against her corset. They made their way back to the castle of Edinburgh, still jesting and laughing. Mary dismounted and took the man's arm, continuing to speak, "What is Elizabeth like? I have not had the chance to meet my royal cousin yet." The topic truly intrigued her. There were poems written about her English cousin's beauty and learning, and she wanted to know if there were truth in them. She had written to Elizabeth many times, expressing her sisterly feeling and asking to be named as heir if the other should die without children. But as of now, she had received nothing but promises of friendship.

Darnley hesitated, "She is the most beautiful woman in England." Mary put his hand to her chest in a gesture of shock, "More beautiful than me?" He quickly said, "We are not in England, your majesty. She is the sun of her court and you are the moon of yours."  
It was a sweet answer and it made her smile and blush again. But, her curiosity was not satisfied, "Is she as tall as me?"  
He shook his head, "She is not."

Mary was satisfied with this. Surely it was striking to be tall. But, there was another subject that concerned her just as much, "Is it true that she is still unmarried?" It was strange, she thought. She was younger than Elizabeth by many years and she had been married and widowed once. If she was as lovely as the poets said, then she should have no trouble finding a husband. Darnley was more cautious in his answer to this, realizing how sensitive the marriage of the English queen was, "She does not seek a husband. When asked, she says that she is married to her country."

He laughed like this was another find joke or an exaggeration, but Mary thought otherwise. She let her hand fall off of Darnley's arm as she thought about it. Was it possible that Elizabeth had chosen the personification of her country above all of her suitors? Would that not be a strange arrangement? For all the charm Scotland possessed, she had never considered taking him as a lover. Though, now she considered it, he was as a handsome as Darnley.

Just as this thought occurred to her, she heard a familiar, course voice call her name, "Mary, we need to speak." Scotland looked harder than usual with the red of rage obvious in his cheeks. She did not want to leave the comfort of Darnley's company for vastly inferior comfort. But, he was her country, and he was not as easily commanded as Francis.

Mary made a quick curtsey to Darnley, not because he was her superior, but as a sign of love, before she turned and walked towards her country. Scotland was holding open the door to a small chamber. He was clearly hoping for a private conversation. Mary walked through the door, allowing him to command her for now. Scotland was impudent though, using his lords to intimidate his monarch. Now, it was hard to say what he wanted, but it seemed important. Once she entered the room, he closed the door before saying, "What are your intentions with this man?"

He didn't speak Darnley's name, but he did not need to. His meaning was easy enough to understand. Mary drew herself up in indignant rage. Her height matched his and their eyes were level. If she chose to court Darnley, what business was it of his? She was a queen and that gave her the right to choose. She answered, trying with every fiber of herself to seem to be a queen, "I intend to marry him."

Dark, dangerous rage flashed across Scotland's face. His jaw clenched and his green eyes became again the hard impassive glass of Mary's earliest memories. He responded, his voice straining against the cruder parts of his nature, "He is the worst of your choices." There were profanities he would rather be using, she could see that. But, she would not endure these slights. She had thought about the politics of it as well as her own feelings.  
She suspected he would find the politics far more compelling, so she said, "He is my equal and he has a claim to the English throne. If God grants us a son when we are married, then he will inherit the English throne."

She couldn't help but feel proud of herself. Like Elizabeth, she could play the politics of men. But, this fine point did little to move Scotland, who gave a sound of frustrated exasperation. He said, his tone rising, "Ay, he would. But, you may lose your crown for it." His words were blunter than she expected. He was not trying to observe tact or niceties. But, she wanted to yell how wrong he was, but she was a queen and had more dignity.  
She screwed up her face and said, "He is my choice, why should anyone doubt it?"

The other rubbed his temple with his gloved hand, "Mary, it is not that simple. He is English and Catholic. I will not have him set above my lords." Mary laughed ruefully. It was always the nobles. They bickered like boys badly in need of a mother's discipline, and, for some reason, Scotland abided them. When she was queen of France, she had not had to deal with the whims of nobles.

His objections were absurd anyway. Naturally Darnley was a Catholic. She would entertain no suitor who did not share her conviction about the Roman Church. She countered, "Yes, he is Catholic as I am a Catholic." She swore she could hear her country growl, his composure failing him.  
Now, there was real anger in his reply and his accent became thicker, "I am not a Catholic country! Mr. Knox preaches against your faith every day!"

She had heard about the so-called reformer and his tirades. He did not frighten her with his vitriol and heresies. For all he said, she did not impose her religion on anyone. She maintained her composure, "Mr. Knox, is a hypocrite. I doubt his young wife benefits from his reforms."  
Scotland waved her away like an irritating fly, "Ay, that he may be, but he is a hypocrite the people listen to. If he calls for your destruction, how long do you think you would continue to reign."

Without even pausing to choose her words, Mary countered, "Then there is even more reason for me to have a strong Catholic ally. And I love him." She returned to her last point because it was the most persuasive. She did not want to marry the man for his title or his riches, though they both were alluring. Scotland took a step forward and his queen took a reflexive step backwards.

She felt her heart flutter for a moment, at this distant her country looked almost handsome. It was as though the sky had cleared and she was seeing him for the first time. But, then he opened his mouth and he became a storm again, "Love is for villagers and poets. You are a monarch. You cannot decide for your own self-interest."  
She met his eyes again and refuted, "If you know so well, who would you have me marry? All the princes of Europe are barred to me unless we want war with England."

For a moment, he was lost for words before he finally said, "You do not have to marry a prince." She let out a short laugh at the absurdity of the idea. She was a woman ruling alone among powerful men. A husband was essential.  
Her reply was swift, "I cannot rule alone."  
He snapped back, "Elizabeth does!"

Mary let out another laugh, but there was no joy in this one. She couldn't quite believe that he dared to compare her to the English queen. Her own temper inflamed again, she said, "Is that what you want, Allistor? Should I spurn all offers of marriage and prance around my court like that bastard, claiming I'm a virgin while I mount my master of horse? Should I say that I've married you?"  
Before she could wittily claim that she could do none of that, he said, "Yes!"

She was shocking into silence by his reply. His green eyes looked like nothing she had ever seen before; they had a longing she had not thought him capable of. The refute she had carefully planned fell from her tongue, sounding deflated as she said them, "Well, I will not. I am a queen and I will choose my king."  
The red head gave a nod that seemed rather sardonic, "You're right. He will be your king. If he is a true Englishman, he will not be content being king consort."

Mary shook her head; she knew Darnley better than a man who had never so much as spoke to him. She said, "You know nothing about him."  
The other scoffed, "I know my brother. He's always wanted my land, and all his people share that longing from Longshanks to Elizabeth. I promise you this: your fine English gentleman will be no different."

Mary turned to the door, ready to end this conversation and return to company that did not question her decisions, but she couldn't leave without having the last word, "I will marry Henry, and you will see how well we rule together."

* * *

"Mary, open this door!" Her husband's drunken slur came from the other side of the wooden door, accompanied by the sound of his fists against it. James, swaddled in his crib next to Mary's bed, stirred and began to cry. She longed to press both of her hands against her ears and drown out the noise of both the baby and her angry husband. He came back like this more often than not, stinking of whisky and whores. The rumors were that the whores were not all female, but Mary tried to shut her ears against those too.

As James's bawling raised an octave, Mary climbed out of bed and walked over to the crib, pulling her dressing gown around herself as she did so. To try and calm him, she took the squalling baby into her army. He continued to scream as Darnley beat unevenly against the door, continuing to shout and taunt, "Come, Mary, let your loving husband in."  
There was no pause before he said, "Woman, my bed needs warming."

Trying to protect his ears from the vile words of his father, she placed her her hand over James's ears. At the same time, she stepped backwards toward a small side table where a knife lay, meant for her own defense. He no longer had a key to her chambers, but if he managed to break the door off its hinges, she would be able to kill him before he could rape her. She curled her hand around the handle of the blade and told herself this was how it had to be. Even God would forgive her if she committed murder to protect her own sanctity.

The insulting fit continued outside of the door, "Open this door. Don't you want another baby in your belly? James could still die, y-" Whatever he was about to say was abruptly cut off by a loud thump followed by silence. Mary lowered the knife she had been pointing at the door and edged closer. Perhaps this was only a break and he would continue again.

But there was an intriguing, God-sent silence. Taking a deep breath, she deposited James back in his cradle. He was still crying, but it was not as loud. Overcome with curiosity, she turned the key in her door and pushed it open only far enough to see what was going on outside. Darnley was pinned against the wall by the much taller Scotland, who was holding the man by the shoulders. The mortal was still rambling, "Your heir is a lie. That child was whelped by a papist dwarf."

Scotland slammed him against the wall again, eliciting a whimper from the man, before saying, "You are drunk, my lord." He pronounced the title with so much spite that it sounded like an insult.  
The Englishman struggled vainly against the strong hands holding him, "I am your majesty, and you should bow to me!"  
Scotland leaned close to him and Mary could see Darnley recoil as the other said, "I do not bow to English shite."

With a single, surprisingly graceful movement, the country threw the man from him, saying, "Your majesty has other quarters." The whisky doing nothing to steady him, Darnley fell onto the stone floor, his jewelry clattering as he hit. With the appearance of a man attempting to swim on land, He turned himself back over and surveyed the scene in front of him.

It was then that he noticed Mary leaning out of her door. He smiled as though he had not just been abusing her, "Dear wife, save me from this savage Scotsman!" Mary looked from her husband, messy and half-dressed on the floor to Scotland, who was standing over him looked like a Saxon warrior in his rage. There was a clear choice and she understood it well enough. She simply nodded toward her country, who took the permission gladly. He stepped forward and kicked Darnley once more in the ribs.

The mortal howled in pain before struggling to his feet and scurrying out of the room like a rat. Only once he was gone did Scotland turn to his queen and say, "Are you well?"

She shrugged, not knowing the honest answer. He has been right about her husband, right about the rebellion that had claimed the life of poor little Riccio. Yet, she could not even find joy in spite to admit it to him. He looked genuinely concerned, so she said, "You may enter my bed chamber if you wish." He gladly took her invitation.

As soon as he entered the room, his eyes lighted upon the crying baby James. Like a concerned father, he rushed over and scooped the baby into his arms. James quieted as Scotland rocked him and sang a soft lullaby in a Gaelic language that Mary could not understand. She was transfixed by the sight of him being so tender and the tenor of his voice. It was pleasing and deep, his accent seeming to match with the language.

James fell silent within minutes and Mary was shocked once again. It was usually impossible to calm the baby even for his wet-nurses. His crying subsided and he lulled to sleep. Scotland seemed to have a magic touch that pacified the child. Still surprised, she asked, "How did you do that?"  
He smiled, still looking down at baby James and said, "Arthur was a terrible baby, and this always calmed him."

He spoke the words with a tone that she had heard him use rarely, and never in the context of his brother. There was something so striking about it, so unusual. The thought crossed her mind as Scotland placed James gently in his cradle, that he would be a good father despite his hard edges. Perhaps it was better this way, since James's father was unfit to raise him. But, the thought brought her mind to back to the most worrying subject at hand.

Her husband had been chased away for the night, but that would not keep him at bay for long. He was a useless rake, and had been since the night of their wedding. He had hidden his nature well until they were bound to each other, and now he was running around the court without shame. She would grant him no powers but the title of king consort for fear of what he would do with them. But, he had crossed a new line tonight in speaking about the death of her child. It was hard to guess whether he was desperate enough to try to harm their child.

She said, sinking into a chair, "He will go whoring again now that I've turned him away." They both knew it was true, but she meant to say more. The words stuck in her throat. He had been right about her husband from the first day, but it was too hard to say it.  
He seemed to understand her meaning because he said, "Ay, I expect he will. I wish for your sake that he would not."

There was an unspoken regret that he wished his insight into her marriage had not been so correct. She felt tears stinging the corners of her. It would go on, she knew, and she would endure it for her son. But, she was a queen, not meant for such misery. The drops of water rolled down her cheeks, as she said, "I cannot stop him from doing as he pleases."

It was the admission that she feared the most. Though she was queen, her own husband lay outside the scope of her control. She placed one hand over her mouth to stop the sound of sobs if they threatened to escape. Scotland said, sharp as always, "You could divorce him and send him back to England." Mary did not know whether to be offended by the suggestion. It was simply impossible take that advice.  
She said, sounding less commanding than she wanted to, "My church does not allow divorce."

Being certain not to raise his voice for fear of waking the baby again, he snapped back, "This is a Protestant country. My Lords are Protestant. You may do what you want." She shook her head. The suggestion was not even worth considering.  
She said, feeling two more tears run down her cheek, "I cannot abandon my conscience for-"  
He interrupted, his voice quiet but forceful, "For what? God will not condemn you for separating yourself from that cunt!"

She rose to her feet, holding herself like a queen again, "I will not abandon my church."  
He shrugged in exasperation, irritated by her true conviction, "Then annul the marriage."  
She countered, "If I do that, then James will be a bastard."  
Scotland sighed, "Then what are you going to do?"

Mary had to ponder the question for a moment. The situation could not go on as it was, not with the way Darnley resented his own son. But, there were very few options left to her. Thinking out loud, she said, "I will write to Bothwell." He was the best option, the earl who had offered his help to her before. He was also a Scotsman, unlike her husband, so he would be a more palatable choice than her husband.  
To her surprise, her country snarled back, "What do you want with him? He is a thug."

The criticism was not right, and Mary objected to it. Bothwell was course, certainly, but he was useful. He was willing to quarrel with other nobles for Mary's sake. His army had been instrumental in dealing with the rebellious lords who had murdered Riccio. He had to be the answer now. She knew he would come to her as quickly as possible and protect her from her raging husband. He might even do more, but she dare not let the thought enter her mind. She replied, "I am writing to him for protection."

Scotland shook his head again, like he didn't believe her, though her answer had been sincere. He finally said, "That man will do nothing for free. He wants you." His tone had an underlying vulgarity that she understood. But, the thought was offensive. Before she could object loudly to the idea that Bothwell wanted carnal benefits for his assistance, Scotland said, "Mary, do not make another mistake with him. Be my queen, be a mother to James."

He stepped forward and kneeled in front of her, clasping her hands in both of his own. His skin was warmer, far warmer than she expected. She met his eyes and the look in them shook her; he was looking at her like she was something fragile. She did not feel like a monarch, she felt like a little girl, confused and alone. Without her permission, he pulled her into a hug. In his arms, she felt like the last of her composure breaking. She sobbed against his shoulder as he said, comforting her as he had comforted James, "All will be well, Mary. Your son needs you and so do I."

* * *

Her quill stopped again after spelling out how much she regretted her marriage to Darnley. She had often wondered while she spent empty hours embroidering in isolation if her life would have been different if she had accepted Scotland's initial offer and remained only the queen of Scotland. In the middle of long days spent on repetitive tasks, she would think of Allistor singing to her baby and rocking him. If she had just stayed there, he could have been a husband to her and a father to James.

But, that choice could not have been feasible. Even without her letter, Bothwell's charm and ambition would have been impossible to resist. He had been capable of making murder sound rational and adultery sound like love. What chance had she stood against the whims of a man like that?

She laid her quill aside and stood up. She walked around the large empty room as she thought. The last time she had seen Scotland was in Loch Leven, and the man had not spoken to her. Mary had been presented with the terms of her own abdication, and he had raised no objection. He had looked away as she signed it. She remembered the look of resignation on his face when he had left her bedroom, in the full knowledge that she was no longer his queen.

Thinking back on her mistakes as a monarch, it was difficult to say that she would have done any differently from that night. But, those decisions had left her here with no crown or husband. And yet, despite the desperate condition she was in, the only regret that remained was that she had trusted in her cousin's protestations of friendship. She could have fled to bonny France instead. Perhaps if she had, it would have been possible to acquire an army and reinvade Scotland and seen her country again.

But, now that speculation was pointless. She returned to the letter. There was little more she could say to him, whatever love had been between them had been lost long ago. Mary ended the letter the only way that seemed appropriate, "Do not mourn me, for I will go to my death as a martyr. For my sake, look after James. He is the future King and the only legacy I leave. Do not let him forget that his mother loved him. Adieu, Mary R."


	3. Weine Nicht Um Mich: Friedrich the Great

Prussia took a familiar route to the all too familiar place, his feet carrying him there without any conscious thought. He knew how conspicuous he looked clad in his black dress uniform, walking in this small town with a white chrysanthemum in his hand. But, he couldn't care less. Let people look at him questioningly; he did not care. He had performed the same ritual every year for more than a century and he was not about to give it up just because Hitler wanted to have some dinner with his commanders.

Prussia had made all the proper goodbyes, stating that there was a pressing matter that needed his attention before grabbing the key to one of the Mercedes and driving to Potsdam. He was not usually so reckless, but this was far more important than another night of nationalistic pomp.

He reached the old church with its soaring spire; it still looked like it had, like the albino, become unchanging. The years of its creation were long gone, but the gothic architecture harkened back to an older age. The wars had not yet touched it. In the years since it had been built, it had housed the remains of all the Hohenzollern monarchs. Now the dynasty was at an end, and Prussia had not been disappointed to see the last of them abdicate. He had been a belligerent fool, unfit to bear the family name. But, that didn't stop Prussia from making this trip.

He stepped inside the heavy wooden doors and was immediately struck by a wave of remembrance. All these years later, it had not become easier to step into this crypt. He still felt his heart beating in his throat, choking him. It was still bitter and painful. He swallowed it in an attempt to force down the raw emotions. Now it was more painful than it had been in the comfortable years. Loneliness had been easier when he could lay his year's conquests here like the fulfillment of a lover's promise.

The space was lit by a single candle, but there were many scattered around the room. The tomb was still mostly in darkness. Prussia put aside the flower and picked up one of the candles. With careful diligence, he walked from candle to candle. As he reached each one, he let the flickering flame of the one he was holding until the flame caught. He walked around the crypt, making certain that no candle remained unlit. If not for the heaviness of the day, there would have been something awe inspiring about the rows of lit candle, lighting the confined space of the gothic cathedral. But, as it was, this felt like a devotional.

Once Prussia finished lighting all the candles, he returned to the original spot. He retrieved the carnation, a white flower adorned with the black and white ribbon of the old flag. Choosing his steps carefully, he approached the tomb. There was a grand engraving of the name of the man, but Prussia knew that the man buried here would have called the monument austere and gaudy. He had wanted to be buried in a simple tomb far away from his father with his hounds. His heir had insisted that he be buried with pomp and ceremony, and Prussia had been in no state to object. The albino placed the flower carefully next to the one from the year before, which had withered and dried. He would remove the desiccated flower when he left. But, first there were words to be said.

The albino kneeled in front of the tomb and said, "So it's been another year, Fritz. You wouldn't like what has happened this year. That man keeps saying you would, but he isn't worth the dust on your boots. I know you well enough to know you would hate all of this." He mentally kicked himself as he realized that he was still using the present tense to speak to a man who was long dead. It was still so tempting to treat him as though he was alive and could still offer sage advice.

The feelings began to accost Prussia, the deep nausea he felt every time Hitler used Fritz's name. This whole thing made him sick. Germany seemed happy for the first time in years, and that was worth something. The dour expression he had worn since Versailles was finally fading, and that was enough for Prussia to swallow all his misgivings. But here, alone in a place sacred to him, he could say what he really felt.

He continued, telling the gravestone his worries like he would have to the man when he had been alive, "Sometimes, I look around and I think that this is the price for my ambition. I started all of this: I told Ludwig all my war stories. He always looked so impressed with me." His voice trailed off and he struggled to regain the thread of what he had said. Germany's new dictator seemed fond of dragging Prussia's name into his tirades, and Prussia could see the fervent wish for that kind of glory in his brother's eyes. His voice returned to him, and he said the words that had been struggling to be formed all night, "I wish you were here, Fritz. I need you now."

* * *

The music of the flute was soft and soothing in the warm summer air, but Friedrich was having a hard time concentrating on it. His fingers were moving, the memory of a song played many times animated them. But, his eyes were on his kingdom, who had draped himself provocatively over one of the chaises. His limbs were spread in reckless abandon. Prussia was holding a glass of red wine in one hand, occasionally taking a drink from it.

The sight was a little victory for Friedrich. It had taken categorically banning beer from his court to get Gilbert to drink French wine instead of that common German swill. He knew that when the albino drank with the soldiers he still drank beer. But, for elegant evenings like this he had learned to enjoy wine. In these little ways, Prussia had become more used to society.

But that wasn't what was so distracting. It was the look on his face. Friedrich would be lying to himself if he said he enjoyed anything more than this. Prussia was his favorite audience. These private concerts were more fulfilling because the albino always had the most sublime look on his face, like he never wanted to listen to anything else. His attention never wavered; he never looked away. He was the only one who ever gave Friedrich the impression he was savoring every note, that the music moved him to the core. There was nothing more gratifying for a musician than the feeling of being closely attended by the one he loved. It warmed him to have the albino's eyes fixed on him.

And yet, Gilbert's attention was distracting because Friedrich knew that if he put down the flute and closed the space between them, Prussia would embrace him. There was an empty place in the albino's arms that was calling to him. However, he would not leave this movement unfinished. The temptation to rush through the movement was present. The evening was pleasant and warm, as only a summer in Potsdam could be and the idea of spending it in the other's arms sounded like paradise.

Prussia took another drink and, as he pulled the glass away from his mouth, he ran his tongue over his lips. And yet, his attention never wavered and a supremely pleased smile returned to his face. The king's fingers found their way to the last notes of the composition and the sound hung in the air as he let the song end. Dwindling music always seemed to leave a certain magic.

He carefully placed the flute aside and watched as Prussia's smile widened. He knew what was coming next, and there was an impish undertone to his smile that invited it. Friedrich took the invitation, stepping confidently towards his kingdom. The albino made to sit up, but apparently decided against it. The king settled himself firmly next to his country, who immediately extended his arm around the other. There was barely enough room on the piece of furniture for the pair of them, but it was easy to find space. It felt like the most natural thing in the world to be reclining into Prussia's embraced.

Friedrich spoke, though he knew he didn't need to, "What did you think?" He knew he didn't need to ask; he had gotten all the feedback he needed from Gilbert's uncharacteristic silence and his rapturous smile. He asked only to hear the praise. Like an obedient soldier, Prussia responded to him, "It was beautiful. You have such talented hands."

Without any resistance from the man, Prussia took his hand in his own and brought it to his lips. As the albino left soft kisses on his fingers, Friedrich reflected on how their relationship had changed. Prussia had never been good at romancing; nothing in his upbringing had prepared him for the subtleties of sweet nothings. Like the soldier he had always been, he wore his desires openly and expressed them without restraint. When he wanted to indulge his cruder desires, he made no secret of it. But, as they spent time together, Prussia had learned a subtler way. His tongue had soften and learned to speak surprisingly good French, even the sweet flirtations of a foreign tongue. Now, the compliment had rolled off his tongue with little pretense.

It was easy to find the words to respond, private words, "Your hands are just as talented. And I am fond of what you do with them."  
Prussia scoffed, entwining his hand carelessly with the other's as he spoke, "Don't lie to me. Mine are soldier's hands. They're rough."

Friedrich could feel the callouses of the albino's hand pressed against his own palm. Gilbert was right; his hands bore the marks of the years of swordsmanship. But, that was the charm of them. They were a map of Gilbert's life before he became a kingdom, every hour honing his own skills. They spoke of the frustrated young knight, and the ascendant power finally coming into his own.

He replied, "Why should that make them untalented? I've never seen anyone handle a sword like you." An arrogant smirk lighted across the albino's face. It was exactly what he expected. Prussia loved praise, more than he would admit. The modesty of a monastic knight still lingered, even though it was counter to his nature. Years of being a vassal had apparently taught him to hold his tongue. It was as though he thought that by voicing his own greatness, he would make it untrue. But, the deep pride he took in his skills was obvious. Obvious in the way he would best his enemies without pretense, obvious in the way he would pour over maps of his new territorial acquisitions like a giddy child. Friedrich had managed to coax it out and find the braggart craving to be released.

He leaned in and kissed the albino's lips lightly, saying as he pulled away, "You are a knight and I wouldn't want you any other way." Prussia's hand tightened on his king's affectionately.  
He seemed to contemplate his words before he said, "You're right. And you're a philosopher, a musician, and a brilliant general." As he listed each achievement, Friedrich could hear the pride building in the man's voice. But, he only took pride in the latter two. Beyond that, he saw an equivocation in the words. By listing the other's achievements, Prussia meant to lessen his own.

His king would not allow this old habit. He immediately said, "I'm afraid you give me too much credit. I leave philosophy to more talented minds. You write better Latin than I do."  
At this the albino let out a scoff, "That's only because I had to transcribe manuscripts."  
The dodges were becoming tedious and Friedrich did not have the stomach for it tonight. He wanted this to be uncomplicated affection while they were alone together. He said, using the voice he usually reserved for drilling the regiments, "Mon cher, I do not want to hear about your imagined inadequacies. I know full well that you do not believe any of it."

A mischievous smile returned to the albino's face, and he let out a short laugh, "You found me out, Fritz." Satisfied that he had won some honesty, Friedrich reached over his country and grabbed the glass of wine.  
As he put it to his lips, Prussia objected, "That was my wine."  
He leaned closer, but it was only the pretense of indignation. They had shared far more than this. A retort rolled off his tongue carelessly, "As your king, I am claiming it." Then, not yet taking a drink, he ran one finger up the albino's leg, "It's not all I've claimed of yours."

It was brazen, but there was no reason to refrain. They were alone and secure. Prussia took the invitation, putting one hand on the side of his king's face. He said, breathily, "I love when you're forceful." Without allowing the other time to respond, the albino joined their lips. He still kissed like a man of war, with passion and messy, reckless abandon. It was like he considered this another conquest. But, it was that undisguised passion, completely honest, that caused heat to spread across the mortal's skin. He could taste wine on his country's lips and feel the hand on his face holding him gently.

But, there was something more beneath that, something naive but wholeheartedly determined, something quintessential to the man. Friedrich knew that he had been Prussia's first, but he suspected that Austria had pined for that honor. In that respect, he had always had the advantage in skill and experience. But, Prussia was earnest and unending in his love, and he kissed with a voracity that no other lover had ever matched.

If force was what Gilbert was craving, then he could certainly have it. His king returned his kiss with equal firmness, gaining ground against his country's force. He could feel the shift in the albino's demeanor as he started to succumb. Prussia pulled back, taking a deep breath as he did so. The proud, witty remark that he undoubtedly had died as he was forced to take another breath. He said, "How do you do that?"

The question was genuinely confusing, seeing as what he had been doing seemed rather straightforward. But, he took it as a flirtation, or an attempt at one. Friedrich spoke as he put his hand in Prussia's hair, "How do I do what, amour?"  
The albino smiled and his king could see the playful shadow beneath the smile. Then Prussia said, "When you kiss me, I feel like I'm melting. I would do anything for you."

His voice was thick with desire, but it was the words that made a blush take to the king's cheeks. He knew Prussia well enough to know that these confessions did not come easily. The man was not one to readily express his emotions. The vulnerability lasted for only a moment before the kingdom added, "But you are my king, so I should do what you want." It was a witty evasion but nothing more.

Friedrich stroked back a few pieces of the albino's hair before he countered, "On the contrary, I am your servant. I will do whatever I can to make you happy." He had said it before, but it carried an entirely different rhetorical weight here with no one else listening. It was not a broad statement on the ideal of serving the needs of the people, it was a lover's promise. The other didn't respond at once. He seemed to be contemplating what he thought of the promise. There was something endearing about the way that Gilbert bit his lower lip whenever he was thinking. But, this was more than banter.

Though he had learned to appear like cold steel to his army and commanders, Friedrich couldn't help but feel deeply for his country and want his happiness. It had been painful to watch Prussia lose land during the Seven Years War, even worse when there had been Russian troops in Berlin and he had seen the spasms of pain when the albino slept. Each loss had felt like the thrust of a knife, if only for the pain he knew it caused Prussia. And yet, he had never said anything, because he did not want his lover, his country to doubt him. Not even a word of his concern had left his lips. Even when the urge to apologize for everything had occurred to him, he had ignored it. Gilbert believed in him and, selfishly, he had wanted that to remain. He had never told Prussia, even once the war was over, that he had told his ministers to place the preservation of his kingdom and his successor over that of his own life. It had been more important to save Prussia and give him a stable line of succession. Gilbert did not know that the deepest joy he had ever felt had not been in the arms of von Katte or in conversation with Voltaire; it had been when the albino embraced him after the signing of the treaty of Hubertusburg, because he knew that Prussia would be safe.

He spoke again, "Anything you want, you need only name it."  
Prussia smirked, "Bullshit." Friedrich responded immediately, "I secured Silesia for you, did I not? I thought you wanted to humiliate Austria and gain territory."

The boast did not feel entirely sincere in light of what his gamble on Silesia had almost cost him. But, the smile that spread across the albino's face erased every doubt. Prussia let out a short laugh, and with their proximity, the king could feel it in his own chest. He replied, "It was amazing to see the look on Roderick's face when he realized you'd beaten him."  
Without thinking about the words, Friedrich said, "He's jealous."  
Prussia scoffed as he always did at the notion, "Of what? He's an empire and I won one little province."

Sometimes Friedrich couldn't help but wonder if this was willful ignorance because it seemed painfully obvious to him. The covetous way Austria looked at Prussia was enough to convince anyone. He sighed as he explained again, "He's jealous of this." To make his point more effectively he took his hand from the albino's face and ran it up his thigh. The other shifted so that they were even closer.  
His response was not the usual denial, "I don't care what he thinks."

The brazen answer was tantalizing. It proved that the Austrian influence was truly gone. The king finally took a drink of the wine he had forgotten he was holding. Then he returned to the earlier subject, "If you could have anything, what would it be? What is your greatest ambition?" He suspected he knew already. Gilbert longed to finally be recognized as a great power.  
Deep crimson eyes met his own and some of the levity left the other's face, "Are you serious, Fritz?"

The return to the somber tone was unexpected. There was a shadow of a much younger boy in Prussia's face for a moment, and Friedrich had the sudden strong urge to comfort him. He moved his hand back to the albino's face and ran his thumb across the skin. The words came easily, "Yes, mon cher, I want to know."  
Prussia took a deep breath before saying, "I want all the German states under my control."

The mortal drew in a shocked breath. He had not expected such far reaching aspirations had resided in his lover's breast. The reaction did not escape the country's notice. Responding to the inevitable question, he continued, "They should have been my inheritance. I was my father's eldest son, but he made my youngest brother the Holy Roman Empire." He drew in another deep breath before saying, "If I could have anything, I would have it all."

Friedrich found himself unable to respond immediately. The information was all so novel. Aside from a few moments of sympathy in his youth, he had never heard Prussia speak of his father or the reason for his hatred of him. He knew little about the distant figure of the Holy Roman empire. This was the first time Prussia had said explicitly that he was even related to Holy Rome. It took a moment to understand that Gilbert had said something he guarded deeply. This ambition must have been festering since his days as a knight, never daring to be voiced to anyone.

Taking the silence for the end of the conversation, Prussia composed himself and said, "I've ruined the mood." He then disentangled his limbs from his king and stood up.  
Having recovered from the shock of the answer, Friedrich said, employing his voice for command again, "Don't walk away from me, Gilbert." The albino stopped in his tracks, conditioned to obey. But, he didn't turn to look at the other.

He could have ordered the man back to his side, but that would be a return to formality. Instead, Friedrich got up and walked over to his country. When he reached him, Friedrich said, "Look at me." The albino turned his eyes with defiant fire towards his king, but the mortal could recognize the feeling beneath it.

It was that look that he addressed when he said, "Never be ashamed to tell me what you think."  
Prussia snapped back, "I am not ashamed."

Gilbert lied badly; he always had. It had been something of a miracle that he had so effectively hid their involvement from Friedrich's father. Years of living under a monastic code of conduct had prepared him poorly for duplicity. This had to be a protestation of pride, nothing more. Friedrich took a step closer and replied decisively, "Yes you are. I don't see why though."

The albino let out a sigh, admitting his defeat, before saying, "It's a nice night. We had good wine and exceptional music. You don't want to hear about how I want my brother's title." His evasiveness made his king wonder when, if ever, Prussia had last voiced these sentiments and what reception he had gotten. He would not pry, since he knew he would get little from the other in the moment.

He took one more small step towards his lover and said, "Do you want to hear what I wish for?" Prussia didn't step away from him.  
The albino responded with a forced laugh, "Better company?"  
Friedrich's hand easily found its familiar place on the albino's waist. He countered, "If I could have anything, I would have eternity."

Prussia's eyes widened as the meaning registered. His king continued, "I would want to be here with you to see you accomplish all your ambitions." The smile that appeared on Prussia's face was completely genuine.  
Everything he wanted to say was clear when he said tenderly, "Fritz."

His king did not let him equivocate or explain; he pressed his lips against the other's. If Prussia was really mad, he would have pulled away. But he leaned in and let himself soften under his king's touch. Friedrich could feel that he had won. When he finally pulled away, the albino was silent. His smile was self-satisfied and bordered on a sneer; it was intensely erotic. The mortal spoke again, "But, for tonight I will be satisfied to take you to bed and claim you."  
Prussia's smile became a smirk as he leaned in again and said, "Whatever you will, mein König."

* * *

The physician let out a low sigh before he spoke and Friedrich could already guess what he was going to say. The pain in his joints was intense enough already, but he had felt his health declining more rapidly for a few months. Consulting the physician had been a formality to confirm what he already felt. The man said, "My king, you are dying. I do not think you will live out the month."

The news was no harsher than he expected. He had already appointed a successor with the full knowledge that he had had a long, rich reign. Friedrich nodded to the physician, "Very well." He gestured that the man should leave the room, and he bowed and left. The news that he would die was not alarming. There were so many times he could have been cut down on the battlefield with his work unfinished.

He pulled his jacket back on, having removed it to be examined, and took his cane in hand. How ironic it was, he mused, that a cane had been an object of terror in his youth, but was now a necessity. He took a firm hold on the wood and used it to get again to his feet. It was deeply frustrating to be trapped in this breaking body, knowing what he used to be able to do. The young could not imagine the difficulties that came with something as vital as walking. But, it was necessary to make it to the desk on the other side of the room. Now he could feel the pain of the gout in every movement. It was only stubbornness that had stopped him from becoming completely immobile.

He reached the desk and lowered himself into the hard wooden chair with a groan. There was a will in one of the locked drawers of this desk that required his attention. It had resided there since very early in his reign, and had been altered very rarely. Removing the key from his pocket with an unsteady hand, Friedrich found the drawer and prepared himself to confront what lay inside. There had been plans in place in case of his death since the Seven Years War, but revisiting them now with such absolute certainty gave them finality. He laid out the papers in front of himself and began to read through them. The instructions were sufficiently clear; the throne would pass to his nephew since he had never wanted any issue. There should be no foreseeable dispute of the succession. For his own burial he commanded that there be no pomp, only a quiet grave at his summer palace. The last thing he wanted was to spend his eternal rest beside his father.

As he read the words again, an image filled his mind, alarmingly strong. He saw his country, dressed in mourning clothes, bent over his coffin crying. It caused a sharp pain in his chest. The idea was clear, but puzzling. Why should he be crying? In all the years he had been king, he had never seen Prussia truly cry. His country was the kind of man who could have wounds stitched with no more than a stony grimace. Prussia had certainly shed no tears for his father.

But, regardless, in the dizzying image of his own death, he saw Prussia weeping. Worse, he saw no one being able to console his country, no one knowing the man beneath the warrior well enough to do so. What was that German word? Einsamkeit. The french was more familiar, Solitude.

The idea was so throughly unsettling that he laid aside the document. There were no arrangements he could make that would keep his precious lover, who had become more like a husband than a casual lover, from pain. It would be absurd to add a clause to his will dealing directly with Gilbert, since his existence was a secret outside of the court.

The sound of familiar footsteps outside his door was not as welcome as it would usually be. What could he say to his country to soften the blow? Prussia did not wait for permission to enter his king's chambers; he never did anymore. He looked as young and intoxicatingly virile as he did in Friedrich's earliest memories. If anything, he looked stronger than he ever had; these years had been good to him. The contrast between them as the years widened had never seemed to bother Prussia, even when Friedrich had felt painfully aware of it. Prussia looked young enough to be his son. Austria did not age either, nor did he seem to physically weaken. When they had met in during the War of Bavarian Succession, it had been hard to meet Austria's gaze knowing how old he looked next to Prussia. It had been clear from Austria's self-satisfied smile that he was glad to see how imminent the king's death was. Austria could see that an annoyance in his path would soon disappear.

As Friedrich reflected on his immortal rival, Prussia walked across the room. The albino needed no invitation; he chose one of the many chairs and sat. He looked at his king, apparently not yet understanding what the document on the table was. Before the albino could bring up a another topic of conversation, Friedrich said, "Have you ever considered taking another lover?"

He heard the pretense in his own voice. Asking about his lover's infidelity sounded like inquiring whether the weather was favorable. Prussia's eyes widened as the words registered. He said, sounding throughly incredulous, "Of course not. Why would I?" He scoffed as though he thought the question was a joke. But, it was not. If he had said yes, then that would have given the mortal some comfort. Perhaps if he knew that someone would take Prussia away from his coffin and dry his tears, then he would be at peace with the concept. At least then Prussia would be spared the loneliness he would otherwise have to face.

But, the words died in his throat as he attempted to form them. It was too hard to tell Prussia that he was dying, knowing that the man loved him and would be alone without him. Friedrich knew what it was like to watch someone you loved die. So instead he said, "I am old and I doubt that I still satisfy you. Perhaps you should find someone younger."

The thought of Prussia bedding someone else made him feel a deep rage accompanied with a slight queasiness. The thought of someone else's hands on the intimate parts of the albino's body made him feel ill. But, if it spared him from misery then it would be worth it. The albino's face fell as he comprehended how sincere the conversation was, and his expression was replaced with one of disdain. But, he shook his head, and the sight could scarcely be more frustrating.

The albino replied with the air of one whose pride had been deeply wounded, "Do you really think that's all I want? I could certainly find someone to fuck, but would he treat me like you do? Would he discuss philosophy, poetry, or music with me like you do? I don't think so. I love you for more than your body."

In the years they had been together, Prussia had certainly become more eloquent. He had enough of an intellect to be a force on his own. But in the moment, Friedrich wished that his country could be simple and superficial. He took a deep breath before saying something else that he thought would never pass his lips, "As your king, I am ordering you to find another lover."  
If he could not remedy the anxiety with gentile urging, he was not against coercing the man for his own good. But, he could have guessed Prussia's reaction before the man snapped back, "No! Why would you ever ask that of me?"  
Frustrated with his country's stubborn nature, Friedrich slammed his hand down on the desk. Before he could consider or reorder his words, he said, "I will not allow you to be alone without me!"

His meaning was clear enough and the other's face went completely blank. He spoke with a mounting disbelief, "But you aren't-" He stumbled for a moment, and then he caught sight of the papers. Enraged, the albino stood and stormed over. Before he could be stopped, he grabbed the top page and took several steps out of his king's reach.

The red eyes flitted over the page. Friedrich steeled himself for his country's inevitable rage. But, Prussia just shook his head slowly, saying under his breath, "Nein." Before Prussia could fully articulate his thoughts, Friedrich said, "You knew this would happen, Gilbert."  
The other's eyes snapped from the pages back to his face. The tremble in his lower lip negated any idea that he was angry, "Is this why you've been having physicians hanging around? So they can make you worry about this?"

He waved the page of the will with a wordless outrage. His king could hear the meaning just beneath the words, and it was making his heart ache. He said, choosing his words carefully, "It is more than just worry. My health is failing." He spoke the statement with absolute certainty, and it fell flat in the deadened air.  
Prussia pulled in a deep breath and shook his head again, "It's not that bad. It has never been before."

He didn't sound fully convinced, and his hands were clenched together in front of himself. Friedrich could see the knuckles on Prussia's right hand turning even paler as it attempted to restrain his sword hand. It was hard to tell what he intended to do with it. Perhaps he wanted to rip it to shreds, like destroying the words would change the reality. But, Prussia knew better than to believe in such childishness.

The king took a breath before saying, "I am not immortal like you, as you have always known. I am dying, and it is certain." He saw the albino shook his head, but took a moment to collect his thoughts.  
He finally said, not daring to meet Friedrich's gaze, "I knew it. I told myself it wasn't that bad. I told myself that if loved you enough this wouldn't happen."

His discipline allowed him to restrain himself, but it was a familiar facade. Friedrich responded, trying to be gentle, "If it worked that way, my father would not have lived so long." A smile appeared on the albino's pale lips for a moment. Even wit could not blunt this blow.  
When Prussia spoke again, there was a tremble in his voice, "I always thought thought there would be one more year. I'm-" His voice caught in her throat, and for one of the first times, tears welled at the corner of his eyes. The sight sent a cold jolt down's his kings spine. It was beginning already, and he felt his country's pain as concretely as if it was his own.  
Prussia collected himself enough to finish his thought, "I'm not ready to be without you. I thought I would be stronger when the time came."

Though it was uncomfortable, Friedrich got to his feet, using the cane to support himself, and walked around the desk to where his country was standing. Ignoring the pain that it caused him, he let go of the cane and pulled Prussia into his arms. The other immediately pulled him closer. Friedrich put his hand on the back of the albino's head and cradled it against his shoulder. He spoke, attempting to be comforting, "It's not a battle, mon cher, you do not need to be strong."

He felt the other's shoulder's heave as he let out a sob. His hands were knotted in the back of his king's coat. Friedrich felt a sharp pain with every beat of his heart. This was exactly what he feared. The man he had never seen shed a tear was crying against his shoulder.

He said, "You're not going to be without me." Prussia looked at him, and there was a look of disbelief that was understandable. But, Friedrich had finally lighted upon the right solution. What Gilbert needed was not a poor imitation of their relationship. He would find no comfort in that. He needed to be reassured that he had no reason to mourn, that he would lose nothing.

Prussia's next question was predictable, "What do you mean? You'll die and I'll still be here."  
To answer it, his king pulled away far enough to press his hand flat against the other's chest. He asked, "What do you feel here?"  
The albino spoke slowly, clearly confused by the question, "Right now? Pain."  
It was kurt, but it was expected. Friedrich responded, "I feel it too. Your pain hurts me too. But, that feeling tells you I am there in your heart."  
He met Prussia's ruby eyes again and he could tell that the man was drinking in every word. His eyes had not completely dried, but it was still clear that he was distressed. He continued, "I will always be there. That will not change with time."

The albino put his hand over the other's where it was on his chest. He said, "What about the times when I need you?"  
The answer was easy, and Friedrich spoke it, "Listen to your heart. I will be there with you. It's my heart as much as yours."

Prussia's tears were gone, but his arms were still holding his lover with such force that he could not pull away. Friedrich did not mind, it was easier than holding his own body up. Prussia spoke again, hesitating uncharacteristically, "I will miss you all the same."  
They were inevitable words, and there was nothing Friedrich could say to counter it. Instead he said, "I expect you will. But, you are fully capable on your own."

He reached up and stroked back a piece of Prussia's wayward hair. The albino leaned in and pressed his lips gently against his king's. This was not the forceful kiss of youth. It was softer and sweeter, and as he put his hand on the albino's cheeks, he could feel the moisture.

But the change in position proved too taxing for the elderly King's body, and he was forced to say, "Gilbert, I should sit." It was a command and the albino simply nodded and released his hold. Only once Friedrich had settled himself in his favorite chair, did Prussia sit on the floor next to him, resting his head on his lap. Friedrich's hand found his country's hair and he stroked it comfortingly.

A difficult thought seemed to struggle on the albino's lips. He finally said, "These years with you have been the best of my life." It was a deeply personal confession, the type that were difficult for the albino.  
Friedrich owed it nothing less than an honest response, "I have loved you since I was a young boy, and everything I have done, I have done for you."

He had never dared be this forthcoming with his country before. But, now that there time was sparse, there could be no secrets. So, in favor of complete confession, he continued, speaking the words that he had never said, "Thank you for coming to me when I was at Küstern and telling me you loved me. I do not know if I would have been able to endure without you. You came even though my father forbid it. I knew then that I could love no one else."

The memory was distant and cold. The imprisonment after his attempt to escape his father's tyranny had seemed like the frigid end of the world. His former lover and friend was dead, slain right in front of him, and the future held no prospect but his father's cane. Prussia had cut through it like a ray of sun through deep fog. He had ordered the guards away, wrapped the young prince in his own traveling coat and spoken the words that Friedrich had never forgotten, "You will survive and prosper because you are destined to be my king and because I love you." Those words had galvanized him and given him the will to find common ground with his father.

Now, Prussia was looking at him adoringly as he continued, "Whatever you may think of Voltaire, you have been the one and only love of my life."  
Prussia was blushing, which was very obvious against his unique skin tone. The albino drew in a deep breath before replying, "I never thought I would love anyone. You are the love of my life." He echoed the sentiment, though the time frame was vastly differently.  
Prussia leaned his head welcomingly against the other's hand, but he continued to speak, "I've never wanted anything in my life but you."

Friedrich felt a smile turn up the corner of his mouth. He countered, "I'm not the only thing. If I remember correctly, you want to control all the German states."  
Prussia scoffed, "Fritz, that was just banter. I know it's impossible."  
Continuing to run his hand through the other's hair, Friedrich replied, "In this moment it is. But in a century or two, it could all be yours. You're more than just a soldier. You have the skill and the mind for it, mon cher. I know you well enough to know that you do not say what you don't mean."

There was an obvious glint of ambition in the albino's eyes, but he did not voice it. Instead he let his king speak again, "Promise me you'll pursue your ambitions, even if I am not there with you."  
Prussia swallowed whatever he was about to say about the improbability of controlling everything. He could tell that this was not the moment for modesty. He said, "I promise, Fritz. I will."

With his free hand, the king reached down and took his country's hand. Prussia's grip was firm. Neither of them spoke; what had been said was enough. Wordlessly, the albino brought the hand to his lips and kissed the fingers. He then spoke again, "I am going to stay with you tonight, and every night until the end." He sounded like a knight pledging to keep a vigil and it was comforting. His presence was more familiar than any, and it would be no intrusion for him to remain.  
So, Friedrich said, "I would like that."

* * *

In the night, the king woke. He looked at his country, who was asleep in his lap. His hand was still resting firmly on the other's.

He looked incredibly serene asleep. The room was dark, but Prussia stood out as pale and pure as moonlight. It was easy to contemplate him now that Friedrich knew he had found an uneasy peace. Likely, he would mourn. But he would keep his promise and continue.

He felt a heartbeat that felt out of time, followed by another that seemed uneasy. It was not unnerving though. This was the most peace he could feel. He looked at Prussia one more time, memorizing every line and feature. If one sight was to be his last, then he wanted it to be this. As he looked at his country, he slowly closed his eyes and let himself slip away.


	4. Moscow Nights: Catherine the Great

The halls of the Winter palace were marred by the black of gunpowder. The guns had done their work in destroying this monument to the old dynasty. But, as Russia returned to this place, after choosing to turn his back on the dynasty that had ruled him for so long, he felt a terrible nostalgia.

War and privation had made this path necessary. The monarchy had failed in every way; Nicholas had tarnished the hallowed glow of the tsardom long before he was removed from power.

Now Russia refused to place his fate and his glory in the hands of men like this again. He would no longer allow himself to be hampered by having to obey the whims of imbeciles and fools who would rather flatter themselves or listening to the inane ramblings of mystics than focus on the needs of their people. He had been weakened and hurt by too many terrible tsars to suffer through another.

This new era would bring the change he had longed for, but failed to achieve for so long. But, he felt a pain deep in his heart at the passing of this era. He, the bulwark of conservatism and a tsarist for so long, had become a beacon of revolution.

But, he mused to himself as his steps echoed in the abandoned hall, a dog would be loyal so long as it was fed, but if it was kicked enough it would eventually bite, even if it had once loved its master dearly.

He turned a corner to a hall he knew very well, where many of the portraits of his former rulers still hung. He knew the one closest to the door he had entered was of Nicholas, who had fled the palace. The portrait alone was vandalized; the knives of revolutionaries had made short work of the canvas. But the others remained, and Russia felt that there was judgement in some of their eyes, but he ignored it; it came from the part of him that was still loyal to the Romanovs. With time, that was certain to fade.

He stopped in front of the portrait of one of the few monarchs who had wanted the best for him and created reforms that made him stronger. He felt a strong sense of regret looking up into her beautiful face. Though he wanted to move forward, he couldn't help but think of a conversation that had occurred in this very hallway with the only tsarina who had ever changed his life.

* * *

It was early morning in Petersburg and a solitary woman walked the halls while the rest of the royal family. Catherine Alekseyevna, she turned the name over in her mind. It felt like a dress that was made for a woman much larger than herself. It was not yet familiar nor did it seem to fit her. It was the name that Peter the Great had given his second wife, and it made a poor hand-me-down.  
Mentally, she pulled the seams closer, trying to shed the name Princess Sophia and embrace this new self. She wanted the Russian name to fit, now that her wedding to the heir to the Russian throne was so imminent. There was no point in holding onto a Prussian name, even if she wished that she had been allowed to have her father's name for her patronymic at least. But the Empress had said that it would be inappropriate because he was a general in the Prussian army. Dutifully, Catherine had bowed her head and taken on the new name, though it had not been of her choosing.

For now, she must say nothing and try to find her way through the intrigues of this court. She turned her mind away from the thought of her name, only dwelling on it a moment longer to remind herself that she must be careful to always answer to the name Catherine and not to the name Sophia. She could not allow even her mother to call her by the name that she now had left behind her. She must allow herself no time for adjustment, because hesitation may be seen as weakness or betrayal. In a court where a tsar could be overthrown by a shift in public support, it was vital that she was careful with her words and actions.

Then, determined as ever to fit in her new role, she began with the task that she always woke early to do. She said, pronouncing the words as loudly and clearly as she dared, so that the sound would ring off of the empty walls and carry back to her so she could hear her own mistakes, "I walk, he walks, she walks, they walk."

The Russian language still felt uncomfortable on her tongue, but she knew that practice would train the muscle. She refused to be like her fiancé; Peter stubbornly refused to speak any Russian. She would be seen as an intruder in this land if she did not learn the language. Her tutor had so far been impressed with the progress that she had made, but that was no reason to become complacent.

She continued to walk, conjugating verbs from her memory and being sure to correct a sound if it rolled off her tongue incorrectly. This early, there was no one to hear when she blundered on her words. The servants sometimes would speak with her, but many of them did not dare to. But, she preferred to speak to them because it gave her yet another form of practice.  
She said, entering the long gallery of portraits, "I speak, he speaks, she speaks, they speak."

Catherine's eyes were drawn to the portraits as she passed them, and it was fascinating to see the way they changed. She stopped walking in front of the portrait of the woman who was her namesake. She looked powerful, like the kind of woman who could match a man like Peter and become Empress after him.

Barely 16 and dwarfed by the portraits of the monarchs of the Russian empire, she felt again like it would take incredible wit and strength to not be drowned by this court. She continued her recital of her growing vocabulary at a higher volume.

She had started to read the histories and understand this land, but there was so much left to know. But, she was certain that understanding and love would endear her to the country. Peter might cling to his German roots, but it would be to his detriment in time. Perhaps when they were married, she would be able to change his mind on the matter.

She stopped abruptly when she heard the sound of footsteps in the room directly to the left. Concerned that she had woken someone, she fell silent and turned. The footsteps sounded hurried, which only intensified her sense of unease.

A tall man came walking into the room quickly, a letter in his hand. But, when he realized that he was not alone, he turned to her and tried to smile. Catherine recognized him immediately, though she had only seen him before at a distance or in formal setting. Russia was usually not far from his empress and Catherine had never had a chance to talk to him alone. As far as she could tell, he was a tall imposing man, and the small smile on his lips was the first she had ever seen. He had never looked disapproving of her, unlike many of Empress's ministers, just distant and resigned.

But, the smile on his face was attempting to be cordial. He said, "Good morning, Grand Duchess." He said it in German, presumably because he thought it would be polite to speak to her in her native tongue. It was considerate, even sweet, of him. But, she would rather have the chance to practice, even with him, though he probably knew the language better than anyone alive.

She said, as gently as she knew how to, "Please speak Russian to me,-" She paused when she realized that she did not know his name and did not want to call him by his title.  
He supplied, "Ivan Ivanovich." Then he continued, switching easily to his own language, "I thought you did not speak Russian."

She had to repress a small smile when she responded, "I have been learning."

She could see a spark of interest in his eyes, but he did not explain it. But it gave Catherine the impression that it was not common for people to put in such an effort. Then the thought crossed her mind that it was because of her fiancé, who must always address his future empire in German.

Russia said, "I only spoke my own language for a very long time, so I understand. If you would like my help, I would be glad to provide it." He glanced towards the side of the hall where the portraits of the pre-Petrine Romanovs hung, though the look in his eyes seemed like he was even further away. She wondered if he was thinking back to being small isolated Muscovy. The smile fell from his face as he seemed to think back on worse times.

To break the line of thought, Catherine said, "Who taught you to speak German?" It was meant to be an easy question, but she was also genuinely curious. And it seemed to be a good opportunity to get to know Russia. But, for a moment, she thought that he might not answer.

But he turned back to her and his smile returned to his lips as he pointed at the portrait just to the right of the one she had been contemplating. Russia said, "He did. Peter Alexeyevich always liked Germans, even before he was tsar. He decreed that German should be the language of the court, and God help anyone who dared to disobey him."

There was a new light in his eyes as he spoke of the father of the modern Russian empire. Catherine could call the emotion in his voice many things. Love and admiration were the words that came to mind, even a bit of awe at the power that Peter the Great had had over his court.

Catherine had heard stories about Peter the Great. He seemed to be a figure of legend here, especially while the reigning empress was his daughter and invoked much of his strategy. But, it was different to be standing next to the only person who had known Peter the Great personally and known him as a man.

The temptation to know more was too overwhelming when she was faced with such an incredible opportunity. Catherine said, "What kind of man was he?"  
When she stole a glance at Russia, there was a look of almost childish admiration on his face, and for the first time she realized how young he really looked.

Russia was perfectly willing to answer the question and said, "He was more a force of nature than a man. It is hard to explain the way that he would take up all the air in the room and leave your heart racing. I've never met anyone who could enforce his will quite like him."

He paused for only a moment, and between the soft early morning light and the tone of his voice, Catherine felt like they were floating together back through history. She was about to ask him for clarification, but he continued on his own.  
He said, "It is easier to tell a story, I think. Peter Alexeyevich went to Europe for a while, and I was very concerned that he would be hurt in some way, because most of the others had been hostile to me. But, one day he came back. He came charging through the door of my room, and immediately demands that I sit down.

"He offered no explanation at all, but I followed his order because he was my emperor. He took out a razor and shaved off the stubble I had been growing. I confess it was not much to remove, but I was excited about it because it was the start of the beard I had wanted since I was small. I thought I would finally start looking like a proper boyar once it grew out. But, there I was, with my emperor removing the whiskers that I was so proud of. I remember exactly what he said while he was doing it, 'Vanya, you are going to be a Western country from now on. You won't need this beard anymore.' I was so confused, but the way he said it was reassuring."

I believed in his vision, though I still had no idea what he really meant. The next thing he did was take all of my caftans and throw them off the balcony."

Catherine realized she must have looked shocked because Russia stopped speaking for a moment. She tried to smile encouragingly so that he would continue. And eventually, he did. He said, "It must have looked very strange from outside to see all of my clothing raining down. But Peter Alexeyevich never cared about what other people thought. When he had an idea, no force on heaven or earth could stop him. He insisted that I wear nothing but Western clothing from that moment on. Of course, that meant that I only had one set of clothing for a week and a half while new ones were being made. But Peter Alexeyevich kept telling me that I looked much better that way."

He paused again and a look that was almost uncharacteristically mischievous appeared on his face before he said, "But I rescued some of my caftans and wore them at night when the Emperor was away. They were too comfortable to completely abandon."

Catherine said, now that she felt that the story was over, "So that was why he was called 'The Great?' He brought you great change." Russia nodded slowly, before saying, "He gave me a place in Europe and a future." He turned back to look at the portrait of Peter the Great and mused, "But, who knows? Perhaps he will not be the last to be called 'The Great.' There is much that could change still."

The last sentence was laden with a longing that Catherine felt in her heart. She had heard rumblings of change in Prussia; the king wrote to French philosophers who saw a new way forward for humanity. She too would like to read the work of Voltaire and correspond with him.

But, her ambition was reaching too far in her mind, as her mother always warned her against. In this climate, it was too dangerous to wonder or imagine change in the empire. Doing so would be perceived as plotting, and given the palace coups that had plagued the empire, it was only logical to see any reaching as dangerous. No, she must keep these thought to herself. She must say yes to all of the empress's commands and say nothing of thoughts of the Enlightenment.

She said, trying to hide what she was thinking, "The future must always hold change. That is the course of time." Russia tightened his hand on the letter he had completely forgotten. He was still looking at the portrait as he said, "Do you think so?"

He seemed to have something else he wanted to say, but he did not. Instead, he turned his attention to the letter he had in his hand. He looked at it and then said, "I should take this to Empress Elizabeth Petrovna. It is an important matter of state."

He was about to leave, but Catherine wanted to make sure that he knew she appreciated the time he had spent talking to her. She said, "Thank you for speaking with me, Ivan Ivanovich." Russia replied with a slight tilt of his head, "It was my pleasure, Catherine Alexeyevna. If you would like to speak again, you may send me a letter. The empress always wakes late and I would like to have coffee with you."

The invitation hinted at a deeper feeling blossoming between them. Him extending the invitation made it easier for Catherine to accept. She liked the idea of being able to speak to him again, and mentally made the note that after a while she should take him up on the offer. But, it should not be soon because it would seem far too eager.

But as Russia walked away, she couldn't help but think of how nice it would be to have a friend who she could discuss literature and language with, and it brought a smile to her face.

* * *

The years passed and the Princess Sophia faded away and was replaced by the Grand Duchess Catherine Alexeyeva, the unhappy wife, who was now married to the tsar. War had come and gone, with the acrimonious end turning the entire army against her husband. Elizabeth Petrovna had not been dead for more than a month and Peter Fyordovich had reveled in his position, doing as he pleased as openly and childishly as possible.

These years had been very different for Catherine. Without the presence of her husband, who spent far too much time with his toy army, she had been free to pursue her own interests in science and political philosophy. As she had dreamed, she corresponded with French philosophers and was a patron of the sciences. She had done this all with very few friends in the court who would support her.

But, she was glad that she could count her country among her closest friends. He had never denied a request to speak with her, even if the matter was a small one. It had always perplexed her how he could so easily find the time to speak to her when he had the matters of the empire to deal with, but she would never question it. If he chose to prioritize her, then she would accept his affection graciously.

She was certain that he knew about her lovers, but there had never been any ulterior motives in his eyes, and she had become adept at seeing them in men. To her knowledge, he had never looked at any woman with a hint of lust, which was puzzling in itself. But, he had neither been judgmental nor doubtful of her nighttime activities, for which she was very grateful.

The afternoon was warm, even with the chill between everyone in the palace. There was a sense in the air that everyone was standing on a knife's edge. Since the death of the Empress, there were hushed whispers everywhere, wondering what would be the future of the empire.

Catherine stepped out into the gardens at the Peterhof, enjoying the feeling of the warm sun on her skin. But, this was not for her own pleasure. She enjoyed her walks in the gardens, but there was no time for leisure. Peter Fyordovich had put so much in danger already, there was little time for her to pretend that she was content with her lonely life.

She saw the person she was seeking sitting on a chair reading a book that she had lent him. She walked up to him and said, "Ivan Ivanovich, would you walk with me?" She offered no excuse, she knew that he would not need one. Russia looked up and her and his expression changed as he recognized the urgency carefully hidden on her face.

He stood and said, "Of course, Catherine Alexeyevna." He extended his arm to her, which she easily took. It was a gentlemanly gesture, even more so since she was hiding a pregnancy, which he already knew. As they walked, she started on a casual and unimportant note, "The gardens are in bloom early this year."

Russia looked at her with an amused smile, "I doubt that is necessary. The Emperor has dissolved the Secret Chancellory, so no one is listening to us speak."

She had done so out of old habit, and he was right to correct it. But, she would not say what she intended immediately. It was too bold to say it outright, and it would shock even Russia. Instead she said, "What do you think of the Emperor?"

Though she thought she knew what he would say, it was better to lead him into it. He replied, "What should I think of a tsar who would rather be king of Prussia or Sweden than be here with me? Or one who gives up gains I fought and bled for?"

She glanced at a scar on his neck that was still pink and healing. It looked as though a shorter man's sword had grazed him there. It was the only thing he still had from the Seven Year's War, as Peter had stripped him of all territorial gains. There was no mistaking the sound of resentment in his voice, which was unusual for him. He usually kept his critical thoughts about the emperor or empress to himself. But, with her, he was far less guarded.

He then said, "And what do you think of your husband?" She scoffed, letting him see just a bit of what she had been feeling during these years, "A husband must preform a husband's duty. He must share his wife's bed, be a father to her children, and protect her from her enemies. Peter Fyodrovich has never shared my bed, save for the night he fathered Paul. He has denied that Paul is his son. And he is quick to mock me to whoever will listen. I have no husband, except in name."

She felt Russia's hand patting her arm comfortingly, and she understand exactly what he was trying to convey. But it was not yet what she wanted to say. Though she did hold great personal resentment for her husband, but her feelings were not what was at stake. She did not cared if he married his limping, ugly mistress. He could do as he pleased in his own bedroom.

She said, "He plans to divorce and imprison me." It was plain and stark as it left her tongue. And she watched her companion's face carefully to see how he reacted. He grimaced as he nodded. So, he had known already.

He said, "I have heard him say so, but it is difficult to tell what he means and what he does not. But he does seem fond of his mistress."

She placed her free hand on her stomach, which was slowly growing. She knew that this was the factor limiting the time she could wait. She said, "When he knows about this, he will have the grounds he needs for the divorce."  
With his usual tact on the matter, he said, "Is Gregory Orlov the father?"

It was not a prying question, only one of clarification since she had changed lovers many times since she had given up hope of Peter's company. She responded with a short nod. They walked further into the maze of plants in the gardens, further away from where stray passersby might hear them.

Only then did Russia say, "He is an interesting choice. He and his brothers control the guards regiment." There was something between his words that reminded her that he had lived through many coups and was wiser to how they worked than he let on.

She said, "If one wanted to use it, his influence could be important. But that is only conjecture." He had hit far too close to her own plans, and she was not yet ready to he frank about it. The dodge had little effect though.  
Russia said, "Well, if we are speaking in conjecture, then I can say that few people would support the emperor. But if we are speaking of definitions, then he has fulfilled none of his duties as emperor either. He does not support the army in war. He does not respect the church. So, perhaps if you do not have a husband, I do not have an emperor."

He didn't need to say more for her to understand what he was saying. She had his blessing to carry out the plan she had put in place. She nodded to herself, certain that she could take the next step forward. She said, "Peter Fyordovich's reign will not last long. That much I can assure you."

By then they had walked so far away from the palace that it would take a very committed spy to hear them, and there was little chance of that. Russia did not look at all shocked at the statement. Much to the contrary, he seemed to welcome it. Catherine carefully pulled her arm away from his and said, "I look forward to the next time we see each other."

As she started to walk away, Russia grabbed her arm and said, "Katya, please be careful."

* * *

Catherine was wearing the uniform of the guards as she sat beside her lover, Gregory Orlov, who had assured her that they would meet no resistance as she entered the capital. His hand was on hers as the approached the gates of the Winter Palace with bated breath. She could feel her heart in her throat. She thought of Paul, and of the son she had just given to the man who was sitting next to her. She thought of the way they would both suffer if she failed and spent the rest of her years locked in a Siberian monastery.

If Peter was able to stop her, then she would never see any of her children again. She wouldn't be able to see her country again either, and he would certainly suffer for it. Russia would hurt and bleed if Peter had his way, and she could not allow that.

There was a letter between her jacket and the dress beneath it, right against her heart. She had received it barely 24 hours ago. It said, "Dearest Katya, I will meet you there. Love, Vanya." This was the will of her country that she should take the throne, and the letter was a reminder of that. This was not selfishness or pride; it was necessary for Russia.

After a moment of anticipation, the gates of the Winter palace swung open and her carriage passed through them. She placed her hand against her breast and let out a low breath. She dared not feel relief yet, not until the crown of the empire was on her head.

But, as they stopped at the steps of the palace, no one stepped forward to challenge the Orlov brother who opened the door for her. Nor did anyone contradict Gregory as he shouted to the assembled crowd of nobles, "Make way for her Imperial Highness."

Catherine stepped from the carriage to bows from the nobles in front of her, which made her heart race even faster. The hope she had carried and nurtured for so long had finally become reality. She walked up the steps and only stopped when she saw a face that was very familiar.

Russia had been standing as she approached, but when they were level he said, "Your Imperial Highness" and dropped to one knee.  
She reached out tenderly and caressed his face. She said, "There is no need for that, Ivan Ivanovich. You may rise; we have work to do."

He smiled at her and stood. Russia had a new tsar.


End file.
